


all the things i deserve

by witching



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, Come Eating, Cunnilingus, Lingerie, M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 15:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: Crowley didn't think twice, didn’t hesitate before pushing the door open. Upon doing so, however, he froze entirely, mouth agape, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight before him.Aziraphale was in his bedroom, which was already strange on its own, but the rest of the picture was enough to throw off Crowley's entire sense of normalcy and routine, possibly forever.





	all the things i deserve

**Author's Note:**

> i had to combine two very horny concepts from lengthy discord conversations. it was imperative that i write something that included aziraphale wearing old timey lingerie and the two of them ripping off each other's clothing. how could i not.  
> title from shakira's "underneath your clothes" because i didn't want to use a line from taylor swift's "dress" when i already used it for another fic.

Crowley was not by nature a creature of habit, but he couldn't have lived for six thousand years on earth without developing a few comfortable routines. Although his preference was to switch things up, to try new things, there were certain areas of life which lent themselves to smooth, easy repetition. The way he drove his car, the way he prepared his coffee, the way he cared for his plants: these were things that did not change, except by imperceptible and unavoidable day-to-day fluctuations.

Also more or less unvarying was the casual flair with which he threw open the door to Aziraphale's shop, never minding whether it was locked, and strode in with a confident sway of his hips. He stuck to this stylish entrance because it had served him well, thus far. Aziraphale had fallen victim to classical conditioning, and it was reflexive by now for him to look up at the sound of the doorknob, unconsciously anticipating the sight that he would not consciously admit to enjoying. 

Crowley never announced himself, and he never knocked; he knew this, and Aziraphale knew this, and they both knew that no matter how many times the angel rolled his eyes and made a show of being put out over the lack of decorum, things would continue on in this manner. So it was a day like any other when Crowley strolled into the book shop casual as you please, and began to talk before even taking a proper look around. Why should he, when there was never anything new?

“Hey, angel, it's feeling like a good day for…” Crowley cut himself off when he realized that the angel in question was not, as he usually was, sat at his desk poring over a book. “Hm.” 

He made his way to the back room, thinking maybe Aziraphale had popped back to freshen his drink or double-check a figure in his records. The room was empty but for the ever-present dusty, overflowing shelves, an ancient wooden table with two ancient wooden chairs, and the standing cabinet in the corner, which Crowley knew to be full of liquor. A weak temptation crept in at the back of his head, and he took half a step toward the cabinet before a creak from above him reminded him of his objective.

“Hm,” he breathed again, steering himself toward the stairs leading up to Aziraphale's apartment. As he reached the second floor, he called out a half hearted “Angel?” but received no response. 

The creak had come from Aziraphale's bedroom, though it was a generous term, as the angel rarely slept. Nonetheless, it was his approximation of a bedroom; it held his wardrobe, a full-length mirror, a small shelf of some of his favorite books, and a weathered old armchair big enough to swallow him whole. Aziraphale felt comfortable in this space, but he didn't ascribe it the same level of intimacy as many people do their bedrooms, and as such, Crowley had seen the room countless times.

So he didn't think twice, didn’t hesitate before pushing the door open. Upon doing so, however, he froze entirely, mouth agape, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight before him.

Aziraphale was in his bedroom, which was already strange on its own, but the rest of the picture was enough to throw off Crowley's entire sense of normalcy and routine, possibly forever. The angel stood in front of his mirror, mostly nude, examining his body without pretense of self-consciousness or pride, simply assessing the fit of his – well, that was the trouble, if trouble it could be called. 

He was wearing a pair of undershorts, a soft cream silk edged with lace, hugging his hips and his thighs in a way that could only be described as  _ delicious. _ It was outdated, like so many of the garments that the angel wore, but that fact did not detract from the appeal. The fabric and the fit left nothing to the imagination, and Crowley stood staring and imagining for longer than he maybe should have. 

It wasn't until Aziraphale caught a glimpse of the demon's reflection behind him and rounded on him with a highly undignified squeak that Crowley broke out of his reverie. “Oh, shit,” he whispered as he locked eyes with the angel, who was rapidly turning red all over. Crowley tried not to think about  _ all over _ as he regained his senses enough to back out of the room, muttering an incoherent apology.

Closing the door firmly behind him, Crowley braced himself against the wall and took several deep breaths. Once he was able to steady his legs and his breathing, he scurried back down the stairs and waited in his usual seat in the back room for Aziraphale to join him. 

Crowley liked to try new things, but he was not a fan of the unexpected. Switching things up was fun for him when it meant trying a new restaurant, or buying the latest gadget. When it came to surprises, though, things out of his control, he didn’t know how to react, and he fled to the safety and comfort of his routine. He had pretty much resolved to pretend it hadn't happened, and he felt fairly confident that the angel would follow his lead in that regard, and they could have a decent – if a bit awkward – afternoon of drinking, as they had planned.

When Aziraphale descended the stairs a few minutes later, fully dressed, he greeted Crowley with a pleasant smile and a breezy salutation, as if the demon had imagined the whole thing upstairs. He almost believed it for a moment, almost dismissed it as some sort of fever dream, until he rationalized to himself that he had been fantasizing about Aziraphale in various states of undress for at least the past few millennia, and he could never have come up with  _ that  _ from his own mind. Aziraphale stopped to grab two glasses and a bottle of wine before taking his seat across from the demon, filling his glass and sliding it across the table to him. Crowley had thought it best to keep his sunglasses on, fearing that his eyes might give away his thoughts. 

His thoughts, as he watched the angel take his first sip, were a swirling, battering hurricane, and at the eye of the storm was the insistent picture of silk and lace and skin, getting louder and more impossible to ignore with every passing second. He clutched his glass tight, drinking his wine in gulps, and attempted to focus enough to be able to participate in the conversation that Aziraphale was valiantly carrying by himself. Time passed in jolts and bursts, Crowley managing to muster up awkward grunts and stilted affirmations every time the angel paused expectantly.

Eventually, Aziraphale heaved a weary sigh and removed his glasses, cleaning them on his shirt as he prepared to address the elephant that was not only in the room, but seemingly sitting directly on top of them. 

“Go on, then,” he said, waving a hand vaguely in the air. 

Crowley jerked his head up. “What?” 

“I know you want to say something,” Aziraphale explained, sounding as tired as if he had already endured the mocking he was now waiting for. “About… you know. So just get it over with, laugh it up so we can move on with our day.”

“Laugh?” Crowley wrinkled his brow, frowning for a long moment before he caught up to the angel's train of thought. “Aziraphale,” he said, voice full of wonder, “do you think I want to make  _ fun _ of you?”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, and it was his turn to frown. “Don't you?”

Crowley simply stared at him, speechless, jaw hanging open. He managed a small shake of his head in answer to the question.

“Then why are you being so…” Aziraphale waved a hand in the air again, gesturing toward him, “if it's not about… that?”

Crowley felt his face flush hot, and he shook his head again, helplessly searching for an acceptable answer. “It  _ is  _ about that,” he mumbled at last, looking down at his hands on the table. 

Aziraphale huffed out a breath. “I don't understand,” he said, then his face hardened slightly. “This is rather more embarrassing for me than it is for you, I imagine, so I would appreciate your candor, if you please.”

“I can't get it out of my head, angel, alright?” Crowley cringed at the sound of the words leaving his mouth, but he forged on. “Is that what you want to hear? I can’t think about anything else, and it's not because I want to laugh at you.”

“I don’t understand,” the angel repeated robotically.

“This is not a time for me to make fun of your dated wardrobe,” Crowley said. “I know I do that a lot, but this – it’s different.” Seeing the angel’s blank, uncomprehending look, he proceeded to explain: “It’s a good look for you.”

Aziraphale cocked his head. “You’re definitely mocking me.”

“No,” Crowley protested, his mouth going dry. “Trust me, I want to do of a lot of things right now, but mocking you is nowhere on the list.”

“What’s -” the angel hesitated, clearing his throat. “What’s on the list, then?”

Crowley swallowed hard, immediately regretting his choice of words. “You don’t want to hear that.”

“I do, though,” Aziraphale assured him in a voice as smooth as a placid lake, “or I wouldn’t have asked.” He drummed his fingertips gently on the tabletop, fixing his gaze on Crowley’s face, soft but unrelenting. 

Crowley looked desperately into the angel’s eyes, clutching the edge of the table with white knuckles. “You know, I was perfectly happy to leave well enough alone,” he muttered. “Don’t know why we have to talk about it.”

Aziraphale just kept staring at him. Even knowing that the angel was employing an age-old interrogation technique, Crowley couldn’t help but squirm under his watch, uncomfortable with the silence and the scrutiny. He licked his lips nervously. Aziraphale leaned in closer, narrowed his eyes.

“Silk is so soft and delicate,” Crowley said eventually, “so fragile, so unlike you.” He was quiet and pensive, and he took a deep breath before speaking again, louder this time. “I want to see more.”

“More silk?”

Crowley pursed his lips, humming in thought. “More of you. Well, more of you like that, so maybe more silk, yeah. Different colors. I think green suits you, it always has.” He watched Aziraphale, searching for a hint of a reaction, to gauge where he stood in the conversation, but the angel’s face gave away nothing, so he kept talking. “The silk is… not what I imagined, but it’s better.”

Sucking in a breath, the angel looked down. “What you… imagined? As in, before?”

“Er, no. I mean, not – I don't – I haven't… Or I have, I suppose,” Crowley stammered, and then paused for breath. “I've not put much thought into what your underclothes would look like.” 

This was the truth, at least. When he had imagined Aziraphale undressing, it was mostly as a means to an end. He had imagined watching Aziraphale undress for him; he had imagined undoing each button himself with painstaking care and attention; he had imagined ripping the angel’s clothes off in a desperate passion. He had never seriously considered what Aziraphale would wear.

Aziraphale nodded, seemingly understanding. Then he stood, slowly, refusing to take his eyes off of Crowley's face. The demon's eyes were still covered, but his mouth hanging open in a little _ O _ betrayed him as Aziraphale stood before him and unzipped his trousers in a rather businesslike fashion.

“Is this what you wanted?” Aziraphale asked, toeing off his battered brogues, stepping out of his tweed slacks. It might have been a silly picture, the angel standing in his socks and knickers from the Second World War, still clothed from the waist up. 

It might have been, in different circumstances, but Crowley felt very much not silly. He nodded his head, his wide eyes glued to the expanse of silk and lace grazing the angel’s skin at mid-thigh. Aziraphale stepped forward, reaching without warning to remove the demon's sunglasses. 

“Talk to me,” he murmured, setting the glasses down on the table and tilting Crowley’s chin up with a finger. “What else is on that list of yours?”

Crowley blinked. What did he want to do? The list seemed rather unimportant now, and he was having trouble keeping track of all the desires battling inside him. Forced to look up and away from Aziraphale’s shorts, he chose to focus his attention instead on the angel’s lips, which seemed terribly inviting, begging to be kissed. He resisted that urge, and leaned into a different one. “Can I… touch?”

Without hesitation, without words, Aziraphale took Crowley's hand, guiding it gently toward his outer thigh, bringing his fingers to rest just where the silk met the lace. He kept his eyes on the demon's face the whole time, so he both saw and heard Crowley's sharp intake of breath at the contact. Crowley smoothed his fingers along the seam, moving as if he were afraid to break something. 

After a long period of reverently stroking the fabric, he looked up at the angel once more, the gears turning in his head. He moved both his hands to rest flat on Aziraphale's chest, separated from his skin by several layers. 

“What about here?” He faltered over the question, nerves fluttering in his gut. “Any silk hidden under there?” 

“No,” Aziraphale answered casually, “not today.”

“Shame,” Crowley murmured, internally toying with an idea that had been nagging at him. “Can I take it off anyway?” Aziraphale swallowed and nodded his head, prompting Crowley to bring his hands to the top button of the angel's waistcoat. “This – now,  _ this _ is out of style. Are you very attached to it?”

“No,” the angel repeated. “Not today.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when Crowley grabbed the two sides of the waistcoat and pulled, causing buttons to clatter to the floor. He moved his fingers to Aziraphale's collar, untied his bow tie, and then hovered there, waiting for permission. Aziraphale nodded again, and in a second his shirt was ripped open. He shrugged out of his jacket so as to make it easier to remove the garments, shuddering when Crowley's hands slid under his shirt to drop it from his shoulders. 

Unfortunately for Crowley, the angel was also sporting a white undershirt, of the variety that does not have buttons. Much harder to rip. He acted on an impulse, leaning in and biting the crewneck collar, pulling on it until he heard and felt the fabric tear, before finishing the job with his hands. 

“I’ll get you back for that,” Aziraphale muttered, attempting to put on a displeased tone. It came out less like a threat and more like a teasing promise, possibly due to his heavy breathing paired with the way his head tilted back and his mouth dropped open as Crowley’s hands pressed flat against his newly bared skin.

Crowley’s breath hitched, though he didn’t know if it was a response to Aziraphale’s statement or to the visual and tactile banquet that the angel’s chest and stomach presented to him. “Oh, please do,” he said breathlessly, running his fingers down the angel’s sides, as light as feathers. 

Whatever composure Crowley might have had left, it was punched out of him when Aziraphale grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, lifting him effortlessly to a standing position. He hardly had time to process the movement, much less respond to it, before the angel had hooked a finger in the deep V of his shirt, pulling him closer, making quick work of getting Crowley's jacket off. Aziraphale was strong; he was sturdy; he always had been. Within a breath, he had both hands balled into fists at the hem of Crowley’s shirt, and he pulled, and it may as well have been made of paper, for how easily it ripped. 

Then again, he thought with a smile, Crowley had never really been one for practicality when it came to his wardrobe. And then, suddenly, he wasn’t thinking much of anything, because Crowley's tongue and lips were dragging along his jawline, his fingers curling just slightly into the waist of the silk shorts, just threatening to pull. He tugged gently, but didn't rip the fragile fabric, choosing instead to sink to his knees.

Aziraphale caught him halfway down, grasping his shoulder, and for a moment Crowley was gripped with fear, that he'd gone too far, that he had read everything all wrong, that he should have held back his impulses, that the angel was going to put a stop to this.

On the contrary, Aziraphale hooked two fingers in the demon's belt loops, pulling him back to his full height before speaking. “You don't need these,” he murmured, vanishing Crowley's constricting trousers with a thought.

Crowley blinked, then smiled. They really were very tight pants, and it would be a great deal easier to kneel without them getting in his way. He wasn't sure whether that had been Aziraphale's intention, or if he'd just wanted to even the playing field a bit, but he was thankful for it, regardless. 

“No, I don't,” Crowley agreed, lowering himself to his knees again. 

From here, he could see up close what he'd only caught a glimpse of before. Resting his hands gently on Aziraphale's hips, he let out a sigh, a delighted, reverent sound. The angel was making a clear effort, in the direction Crowley had always imagined, but this was better than any of his fantasies, everything about it was better. 

The shorts had done little to hide anything before, but now Aziraphale was achingly hard, his cock straining against the fabric, and fully on display for Crowley's appreciation. It was bigger than he'd imagined, thicker and longer, and he could see a wet spot on the silk at the head of it. The angel's skin radiated warmth, and the heady scent of his arousal, and Crowley was awestruck. 

Not too far gone to feel self-conscious, the angel cleared his throat. Crowley looked up at him.

“Oh,” he breathed, “oh, angel. Can I?”

Aziraphale didn't know what, exactly, Crowley was asking permission for, but he was certain that the answer was yes, and he said so. 

Crowley leaned in and licked him through the fabric, once, quickly. Aziraphale's choked gasp compelled the demon to pull back again, looking up with genuine concern written on his face. Aziraphale couldn't control what his own face looked like at that moment, somewhere between revelation and rapture, but it was good enough to encourage Crowley to continue, and for that he was thankful.

Aziraphale had long known that Crowley's tongue was a thing of wonder; he would have lost sleep over it, if he were the type to sleep. He had watched thousands of times as that tongue wet the demon's lips, caught a taste of ice cream, scented the air, and now he watched as Crowley lavished his thinly-covered cock with it. He resisted the urge to twist his fingers into Crowley's hair, opting instead to grab the edge of the table to keep himself standing. The demon's hands tightened on Aziraphale's hips, holding him in place, and then Crowley wrapped his lips around the head of his cock and  _ sucked, _ and it was all the angel could do not to come.

_ “Crowley,” _ he moaned, and the demon made a small noise in his throat at hearing his name like that, at the fact that Aziraphale was writhing, his voice dripping with arousal, because of him.

He sat back on his heels and looked up through his eyelashes, almost innocently. “Yes?”

Then there was a hand in his hair, pulling ever so gently, guiding him forward, and Aziraphale said, “Don't stop,” in that low, hoarse voice. 

Crowley could have disappeared the angel's shorts with a thought, or he could have taken the time to pull them out of the way, but those options did not occur to him when the forefront of his mind was occupied as it was with want. He didn't even fully realize what he was doing until he heard the silk tear, and felt Aziraphale's grip on his hair tighten.

“I like these,” the angel groaned. “They're my favorites.”

“Shit,” Crowley murmured, distracted from the angel's distress by the sight of his erection, free of its confines and right in front of him, practically making his mouth water. He discarded the ripped silk on the floor, muttering, “You can fix them later.” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond, but the demon cut him off by licking a broad stripe up the underside of his cock. “I know,” Crowley whispered, pulling back by a hair's breadth, “you'll always know they were ruined, but that makes it so much hotter.”

Aziraphale blinked, as if his whole world had shifted perspective, and then nodded his head resolutely. Crowley smiled, pleased that he was able to talk the angel out of being upset with him right when he was getting to the good part. Although, he thought in the back of his mind, maybe it wouldn't be so bad, to get Aziraphale riled up, to bring out a side of him he so often tried to hide. To be punished for his insolence. Crowley shelved that thought, saving it for later.

He moved in again, laving his tongue over the head of the angel's cock, relishing the taste of him for a moment before taking him all the way down, making Aziraphale wail. Crowley pulled back, hollowing his cheeks as he bobbed his head and put his tongue to use, pulling out all the stops. He was torn momentarily between wanting to show off and wanting to make this last, but his decision was made for him when Aziraphale tugged on his hair, pulling the demon off his cock with a soft popping sound. 

Looking down at Crowley's face, a mess of saliva, his lips swollen, his pupils blown wide, Aziraphale moaned again just at the sight of him, then took a deep breath. “What do you want?” the angel asked, his soft voice belied by his red cheeks and curls beginning to stick to his sweaty forehead. “Let me do something for you.”

Crowley frowned, giving him a puzzled look. “You  _ are _ doing something for me,” he said simply.

“No, no,” Aziraphale protested, stroking the hair on the side of the demon's head. “No, let me touch you, Crowley, please.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, as if that course of action had not hitherto crossed his mind. “Oh, yes, alright.” He stood to level with Aziraphale once more, their noses nearly touching. 

The angel didn't waste any time in getting Crowley pinned against the nearest wall, holding him by the shoulders and pressing the lengths of their bodies flush together, and kissing him fiercely. Crowley made a series of strained noises, moans and whimpers issued in response to Aziraphale's tongue and teeth. Though he was hardly able to reciprocate with the bruising force of the kiss knocking the wind out of him, he managed a few weak thrusts of his hips, searching for a type of friction he wasn't getting. 

Aziraphale smiled against the demon's lips before taking pity on him, moving a hand to palm lightly at the front of Crowley's boxer briefs. 

“Hm,” he hummed as he slipped his hand past the waistband, feeling his way down, down. Without much ado, he slipped two fingers into the slick wet heat, kissing the demon again to swallow his gasps and breathless moans. 

“Oh shit, oh, angel,” Crowley murmured into Aziraphale's mouth, even as he rocked his hips down on the angel's fingers. When Aziraphale pressed up and hooked his fingers inside him, Crowley cried out, clutching Aziraphale's shoulders like a lifeline. The angel refocused his mouth, pulling away from the kiss to suck a mark into Crowley's throat, and the demon keened.  _ “Aziraphale,” _ he whined, “I want you to fuck me.”

“Say that again.” Aziraphale grazed his thumb over Crowley's clit, holding him up as his legs threatened to fully give up on him.

“I want you to fuck me,” Crowley repeated fervently, desperately. “I want you, I do, I always have.”

Aziraphale lost his breath at that, though it wasn't exactly news to him. He kissed Crowley again, firm but tender, and briefly considered getting him naked with a wave of his hand, but decided against it. He moved both his hands to the demon's waistband and effortlessly tore the cotton, relishing the sound of surprise and delight that Crowley breathed against his lips.

Wrapping his strong hands around the backs of Crowley's thighs, Aziraphale lifted him, holding him up against the wall while Crowley twined his legs around the angel's waist. 

One of them, or possibly both, used a minor miracle to line things up without using their hands, and then Crowley sank down on Aziraphale’s cock in one smooth motion. The angel thrust up into the tight wet heat of him, his fingers forming bruises on Crowley’s thighs. Crowley repaid him with nails digging into his back, dropping his head to rest against the angel’s shoulder, pressing quick, wet kisses along his collarbone and chest.

The sweat and heavy breathing and bruises and scratches were all unnecessary, could have been handled with half a thought, but they both felt, on some level, that the experience wouldn’t be whole without the messy bits. Likewise, when Aziraphale leaned into a deep and all-consuming kiss, slipped his tongue past Crowley’s lips just as he stilled and came inside him, it would have been simple to vanish the mess. Instead, he released his hold on Crowley and set him down on shaky legs just long enough to pull out and fall to his knees, then grabbed Crowley’s calf and hooked the demon’s leg over his shoulder. 

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate to put his mouth to use, diligently licking up the taste of Crowley’s arousal mixed with his own come. Circling Crowley’s opening with his tongue, he managed a small smile at the noises he was eliciting from the demon and the long fingers finding their way into his hair. When he slipped his tongue inside, he felt Crowley’s whole body tense, felt him rock his hips down, grinding against the angel’s face, seeking something deeper, harder, more.

Aziraphale was happy to oblige. He pushed in deeper, adjusting his angle for better access, and fucked his tongue into the demon a few times before shifting his focus up, enveloping Crowley’s clit with his lips. He pressed his tongue up, swirled it around, and began to suck hungrily, making the demon cry out in whines and whimpers. Crowley was already far beyond the ability to form words, and it did not help matters when Aziraphale gripped his hip with one hand while he used the other to fuck the demon with his fingers.

Crowley came with a keening moan, as well as a few profanities, and Aziraphale sucked and licked and fingered him through it, until he heard the demon’s choked noise of overstimulation and felt the tug on his hair. He pulled back, ensured that both of Crowley’s feet were flat and stable, and guided him gently down to the floor, so they were face-to-face again.

It felt odd, now, to not be touching each other, so they both moved closer at the same time. After a shared laugh and a small shuffle, they sat with their backs against the wall, Crowley tucked into Aziraphale’s side, the angel’s arm slung over his shoulder.

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice was small, and he didn’t look up when he spoke.

Aziraphale tightened his hold on the demon reflexively. “Yes, my dear?”

Crowley turned his head, pressing his face into the warmth of Aziraphale’s chest, and the angel felt his smile against his skin before he mumbled his response. “I’m never making fun of your clothes again.”


End file.
